


Adventures in Laundering

by savedatlast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Laundry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:39:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedatlast/pseuds/savedatlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester hates doing laundry. **mentions of blood and violence cw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Laundering

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing yesterday. This is what was produced. I kind of played with Cas' first encounter with doing laundry... didn't really edit it much so reader beware. Here be somewhat prosaic drabbles.....  
> Drabbles that somehow end up over 2,000 words
> 
> *EDIT - made some revisions as I noticed some lines got messed up and I completely forgot about the head injury.... :S

Dean Winchester hates doing his laundry. More than that, he hates laundromats. He hates making small talk with the other sadsacks like him who don't have their own machines, he hates how half the machines never seem to work, and he hates waiting. He’s been washing whatever few articles of clothing he’s owned in laundromats all across America since way back when he and his brother Sam were kids and their Dad was always moving them around, unable to stay in one place for too long without getting antsy. Dean has far too many dull memories of having to drag his little brother to the nearest laundromat once a week after school while John was working his latest blue collar job, and then spending hours trying to keep him entertained.

They never stayed in one city for more than a few months, but every laundromat somehow felt the same, whether it was in Sacramento or Springfield or somewhere in between. The longest they ever stayed in one place after the boys’ mother died was when John met a woman in Minnesota, the year Dean turned twelve. They stayed a whole six months before Dean and Sam came home from school one day to find their stuff packed and waiting by the door of their tiny, rundown apartment. Dean had hated the place at first, didn’t think he’d miss it when they inevitably moved on. He never missed the other shitty apartments. But as he watched the town he’d only just started to call home disappear in the rear window of John’s ’67 Impala, he felt a twinge of resentment toward his father that he hadn’t felt since the first day they packed up and left everything behind.

When John passed away five years ago, Dean swore he’d do whatever it took to get his brother through college. When Sam had received a full ride to Stanford, Dean, refusing to spend the money on a better place for himself as was Sam’s suggestion, bought him a car. Hence the reason Dean is almost thirty and has been living in the same shitty apartment for five years which, as fate would have it, does not have its own laundry machines.

As Dean haphazardly shoves several pairs of jeans into the washing machine, he hears the telltale ring of the door opening. He glances at his watch -- it’s nearly 1am and he has been alone in the place for a half hour, the night clerk having gone for a nap in the back as she always does, knowing Dean’s the only one who ever comes in. He frequently does laundry at this time, both to avoid the daily crowd, and because he simply doesn’t have time to do it at a decent hour. A price he’s willing to pay for silence and solitude.

He pretends to have not heard the door and tries to focus intently on searching the pockets of one of the pairs of jeans, which is why he doesn’t notice the other patron coming to stand next to him. Dean stands to grab some soap and comes face to face with piercing blue eyes that are entirely too close for comfort.

He yelps and jumps back, clutching at his chest as his heart attempts to pound straight through it. The rest of the man’s features come into focus and the first thing Dean notices – apart from the unnaturally vibrant blue of his eyes – is the blood. It covers one side of the man’s face and neck and has soaked into the collar of his white dress shirt. There are smatterings of it on the man’s beige trench coat as well.

Once he gets past the blood and his heart ceases its escape attempt, Dean sees a mess of dark hair and chapped, but seemingly soft lips. Next, he registers the apologetic look the man is giving him and realizes that he’s been staring at the guy for a solid minute.

“I apologize for startling you,” says the man in a low gravelly voice, and that voice with those eyes has Dean thinking he might have dozed off and is having some weird fetish-y dream…

“Sorry to ask, but would you happen to have some extra change for the machines?” the voice continues hesitantly.

Dean, still off in dreamland, blurts out, “why are you covered in blood?” before coming to his senses and mentally kicking himself. _Shit. Way to go Dean._

The man shifts uncomfortably as if debating whether to tell him and Dean instantly feels like an asshole for asking. “It’s okay man, you don’t have to tell me.” He turns away from the stranger to fish through his wallet for some quarters, and when he turns back, the man is once again too close to be socially acceptable. The proximity of those blue eyes is enough to send Dean’s heart into another spasm, and he wonders off-hand if he should be afraid for his life. He hands the change to the man and turns back to his machine, hoping that will be the end of it and he can go back to his quiet night.

“Thank you very much,” says the voice before choosing a machine on the other side of the room. Despite being a bit rattled by the guy, Dean feels somewhat regretful as the strange man walks away. He watches him while he shoves the rest of his clothes into the drum of the washer. The man stands before his machine, seemingly confused and at a loss for what to do next.

Dean sighs heavily as he shoves some quarters in the slot and the washer starts its rinse cycle. He walks over to where the man is gingerly peeling off his coat and gestures at the machine. “Need some help with that?” he takes the relief that surfaces on the man’s face as a yes, and as he’s explaining how to start the machine, the man starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Obvious really, as it too will need to be washed, but Dean hadn’t expected it to have an effect on him. Certainly not one that has him forgetting to move his mouth halfway through his lecture about using too much soap. Beneath the collar of the man’s shirt is a scary-looking gash that seems much worse than the one on his temple, the blood having congealed and stuck to his skin, but the thing that really catches Dean’s attention is the lines of taut, lean muscle that frame his torso and which were completely imperceptible beneath the business get-up.

 _Maybe I should be afraid,_ says a tiny voice in the back of his mind that is still focused on the blood, but Dean can’t find a reason to care, other than the man looks to be in a fair bit of pain. Thankfully, he hasn’t taken notice of Dean’s blatant staring.

He wanders over to a mirror above a large basin sink against the back wall to assess the damage. He dampens some paper towel and starts cleaning the caked blood off his face. Dean watches for a moment and then approaches him, grabbing the first aid kit from the wall beside the sink. He opens the kit and fishes out some antiseptic and a thick gauze bandage, and gently puts his hand on the man’s shoulder, signaling for him to face Dean.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, trying to establish a comfortable atmosphere.

“Castiel.”

Dean holds back any comments about how strange his name is and instead focuses on the first aid training he received back in high school. _Give them your name. Always ask permission before you help someone._ “I’m Dean. Can I help you clean that up?” he gestures at the undoubtedly painful laceration above Castiel's left shoulder.

Castiel nods, those deep blue eyes meeting his again, though this time Dean isn’t alarmed by the proximity. Instead he finds he doesn’t mind at all…

At the first touch of antiseptic to Castiel’s wound he hisses and tightens his grip on the edge of the sink. Dean feels bad for the guy, and again, wonders what happened. As if he read his mind, Castiel speaks, softly, voice taught with pain, “I was mugged.”

 _Oh. So, probably not a psychopathic murderer_. “Damn, man. That sucks.”

“They took everything I had.” Castiel lowers his gaze to the floor, “my wallet, briefcase, cellphone, car keys…”

 _Well that explains why he needed the money_. Dean feels a strangely disproportionate amount of sympathy for the guy, but another question presents itself to him, “Why didn’t you just wait ‘til you got home to wash your clothes? Or better yet, why aren’t you at a hospital?”

Castiel heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his dark, messy hair, ruffling it even more, “I live an hour away, and without my phone I couldn’t call an ambulance, or a cab…. I walked ten blocks trying to find a payphone to no avail, and then I saw this place and thought, ‘well if I can at least get the blood stains out of my clothes I would be less conspicuous’…. I hadn’t planned much past that point.”

Before Dean has time to think about the words coming out of his mouth, he’s offering to give Castiel a ride.

“No, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. You’ve been too kind already –"

Castiel starts to pull away, but Dean grabs his wrist, holding his other hand up in a calming gesture. “You don’t have to ask, I’m offering."

Castiel looks unconvinced, and glances down to where Dean has a hold on him. Dean slowly releases his arm and holds his hands up in surrender. “Cas, at least let me finish patching you up.”

Cautiously, Castiel moves toward Dean again, and if there is a tiny bit more distance between them than before, Dean hides his disappointment well. “How else are you going to get home then?” Dean asks tentatively as he continues cleaning the wound.

Castiel is silent for a while, staring at Dean with those eyes that seem to be searching his soul to determine its worth. Just when Dean starts getting uncomfortable having Castiel’s burning gaze on him, the man utters a single word.

“Okay.”

Dean raises his eyes to meet Castiel’s and is surprised to see him smiling. “Okay?”

“I accept your offer.”

Dean feels a bit flustered at the thought of being in a car with the strange but decidedly hot Castiel, and tries desperately not to appear so by focusing on applying the bandage, “Well, okay then. It’s settled.”

Dean straightens up and is once again face to face with brilliant blue eyes. He has a strong urge to scurry back to his laundry and pretend his heart didn’t just start pounding through his chest for the third time that night. Instead he finds himself cemented in place, and his eyes flick to Castiel’s lips. He tries desperately to get a grip and keep his mind clear, but he catches Castiel’s eyes lingering on his mouth as well, and the only thing he can think of doing is to lean forward and –

The loud buzzing sound of the washing machine ending its cycle causes both men to jump. They meet each other’s gaze again and laugh nervously. Finally, Dean gathers enough willpower to stride reluctantly over to the machines to change his clothes over and start the dryer.

Castiel returns to his machine and forgotten clothes, and starts the wash cycle. They turn and face each other, furtive glances meeting across the empty room as they both debate their next course of action.

Castiel pipes up first, “Dean, I can’t thank you enough for helping me with-“ he gestures vaguely at the sink and the machines, “-everything.”

“Happy to help,” Dean replies, he hopes not too eagerly. "Your head's okay?"

Castiel touches his temple as if he had forgotten about his other injury, "Yes, it's just a scratch."

At that moment, a soft, low rumble resonates around the room.

Dean glances at Castiel who looks slightly embarrassed and is adamantly avoiding eye contact, and grins. “Hungry?” he asks, amused, shamelessly grinning at the increasingly mortified expression on Castiel’s face.

“I guess I am,” Castiel says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, drawing Dean’s attention and making his heart beat a little faster, “I haven’t eaten since my lunch hour.”

Dean considers the probability of someone coming in this late and stealing all their clothes, takes note of his own empty stomach and makes his first clear-headed decision all night, “Whadya say we grab some food while we wait for this to finish up?”

Castiel perks up a bit, but it quickly turns to hesitation and Dean braces himself for a polite rejection.

“I don’t have a shirt.”

Dean suddenly takes notice, as if he hadn’t been ogling the guy not 20 minutes ago. His eyes dart around the room, searching for a solution because he’s not about to surrender now. They land on a box of forgotten clothing, and atop the pile is a light blue button-down. He pulls out the shirt, giving it the once-over to make sure it’s clean, and then presents it to Castiel.

Castiel tentatively takes the shirt and holds it up. He looks from the shirt, to Dean and back again as if deciding how badly he wants food. After a beat he slides it on, careful not to disturb the bandage, and buttons it up. He offers Dean another small, heartbeat-quickening smile, “Ready.”

Dean grins wide, grabs his wallet and is headed for the door when Castiel’s smile fades once more, “I don’t have any money.”

Dean’s head is too full of the heady prospect of spending more time with Cas that he barely registers his response before it’s too late, “It’s okay I usually pay on first dates.”

When he hears his own words he stops dead, one hand on the door handle, hoping to god that he didn’t actually say what he thinks he did. He takes a shaky breath when he hears Castiel begin to walk toward him. He starts to think he imagined everything, the charged atmosphere, Castiel standing too close… He’s about to play it off as a joke when he feels a hand grip his shoulder. He slides his gaze to the side to find Castiel smirking mischievously at him, and decides right then and there that maybe laundromats aren't so bad, when the deep, gravelly voice says, “Okay. I’ll pay next time.”


End file.
